


Behind the Scenes

by Roadtosuccessunderconstruction



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: AU, Actor Crowley (Good Omens), Author Aziraphale, Behind the Scenes, F/M, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, The Them make films, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadtosuccessunderconstruction/pseuds/Roadtosuccessunderconstruction
Summary: Fifteen years ago, Aziraphale wrote a novel so powerful and raw that it flooded the charts. Everyone and their mother read it. But that was fifteen years ago and he hasn't written anything since. Sales have dried up and money is running low. In an attempt to breathe new life into this creation, he agrees to work with The Them independent film makers to adapt his book to the screen.Crowley is a down on his luck actor. Once upon a time, he was the leading man on everyone's radar. However, after a series of less than flattering scandals and controversies, the acting gigs have all but disappeared. Perhaps this audition for an indie film is just the thing to revitalize his career.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling/Adam Young
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Behind the Scenes

Soft golden rays streamed into the room through a crack in the heavily embroidered curtains, illuminating a myriad of dancing dust particles careening through the air. The room was, all at once, both a practical and impractical affair. Cluttered chaos intermingled with homely touches creating a lived-in feel. The decor bordered that fine line between modern and antiquity which created its own style of historically comfortable rather than historically accurate.

Various items of regal redwood furniture groaned under the weight of various tartan soft furnishings and miscellaneous knick-knacks. Piles of books could be found in three of the four corners, and much of the space in between. Hefty tomes, lofty hardbacks, trashy paperbacks, almanacs, diaries, anthologies, encyclopedias, odysseys and the like all in piles of neatly ordered disorder which threatened to spill over into the center of the room where an old but comfortable looking sofa and armchair sat. They were not part of a set; the sofa being a plush emerald and the armchair a muted cream, but they still both complimented each other due to their shared ability to seemingly mold its cushioning around anyone sitting there. This was not due to some overpriced, over-hyped built-in feature but a feature nonetheless built in over time and use.

In the fourth corner of the room, previously mentioned for being the only corner not yet invaded by the advancing literary horde, was a simple oak desk upon which sat several reams of paper with various jottings and scribbles, a pot of multi-coloured pens and a computer; the screen currently open on a blank word document, the cursor flashing intermittently.

Sitting behind this desk was a blonde-haired man, casually leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, head tilted up towards the ceiling. Like the room itself, he appeared historically comfortable. He wore a light-coloured suit with a beige tartan bow tied neatly under the collar of his white cotton shirt. Despite the seemingly formal wear, the suit was made from a luxuriously soft cashmere wool blend and appeared to give the man a soft, fuzzy feel; which was further compounded by the faint smile lines by the corners of his mouth and eyes and the soft swell of his stomach which boasted a love of good food and fine times. On anyone else such a suit could be seen as out of place as a form of casual wear but here it appeared commonplace.

A sudden shrill ring broke the silence in the room and startled the man awake. He blearily swept his hands across the desk-seeking out the offending object of alarm, sending loose papers scattering to the floor in his haste. He found the phone and lifted it to his ear on the sixth ring.

“Aziraphale! Young man, you are late!”, a loud voice heckled him from down the line.

Aziraphale glanced at his watch and winced, bringing his hand up to ruffle through his platinum blonde curls.

“Agnes, my dear, I am so sorry. I must have lost complete track of the time. I am leaving now; I will be with you momentarily.”

“No need. I foresaw this happening, so I decided to come to you. I’m outside-be a love and buzz me up.”

Aziraphale shook his head fondly at the phone in his hand, the call having been disconnected after Agnes’ request. He placed the phone back down upon the desk and stood from his seated position; further stretching his arms above his head and cracking his spine while doing so. He hastily bustled over to the intercom by the front door to his flat, pressing the button to allow Agnes to gain entry to his bookshop downstairs and left the door to his flat ajar while he went to busy himself in the kitchen with tea and snacks.

He was just filling the kettle with water from the tap ready to be placed upon the hob when he heard the front door swing wider open and close before purposeful footsteps made their way to his living room.

“Make yourself at home my dear”, Aziraphale cheerfully called out to his guest.

“I intended to darling”, the response came, coloured in joviality and just a touch of fond exasperation.

The kettle whistled and Aziraphale swiftly fixed up a pot of Chinese black tea and a plate of dark chocolate shortbreads. Humming softly to himself, he gathered these refreshments on a tray and took them through to the living room. He placed the tray down on a low coffee table in the center of the room before turning to face Agnes standing by his desk.

Agnes cut a tall-and rather imposing-figure against the softly chaotic backdrop of Aziraphale’s workstation. Her wavy brown hair had been pinned up into a casual up-do, held in place by an ornate turquoise clip. The turquoise was further present in her dress in the form of twinkling lines of embroidered flowers and vines set amongst the black fabric. She wore a pair of thick-framed rectangular glasses upon the end of her nose, through which she was currently looking at Aziraphale’s computer.

“I see the new book is coming along well”, Agnes commented wryly, lifting her gaze to meet Aziraphale’s head on.

Aziraphale felt himself flush with embarrassment as he scuttled over to his desk, shifting the mouse to move the cursor to the bottom right corner of the screen, minimising the empty word document.

“I’ve just had a bit of difficulty getting started,” Aziraphale muttered, choosing to ignore Agnes’ stifled snort while herding her away from the desk and towards the tea.

Agnes sunk into the sofa while Aziraphale poured out the tea into pale rose bone china cups, passing one to Agnes before taking his over to the armchair. Agnes nodded her thanks and drank deeply from the cup, a soft smile on her face.

“Aziraphale, you know I’ve represented you for a long time now”, Agnes said, placing the now empty teacup back down upon the tray.

“Why yes, it must have been around fifteen years ago now that you helped me get _The Fall_ published. I still can’t believe you took a chance on me back then!” Aziraphale gushed, stretching forwards to grab a biscuit.

Agnes smiled and waved her hand, “Of course I took a chance on you-it was a spectacular debut novel. To date, it is one of the most successful publications on my books. I would like to think, however, that we haven’t just been plodding along these past fifteen years as simply literary agent and author. I would like to think of you as my friend.”

A small frown of concern appeared between Aziraphale’s eyebrows, “Of course we are friends my dear, I hold you in the highest regard. Now come on, this is most unlike you, what is troubling you?”

Agnes sighed deeply before continuing, “Now I would never suggest anything to cause you undue stress or pain, but you have to realise that there is no more money. Simply no more. Regardless of how good The Fall was…or rather is; after fifteen years of being in print, sales have dried up. Despite your best efforts, you haven’t written another book. You refuse to make a concerted effort to get your bookshop downstairs running like a profitable business and I am worried that you don’t understand what this means.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb, “I am aware Agnes. It’s just, after finishing _The Fall_ , it was like the part of me that had been totally consumed by writing just vanished and I haven’t been able to find something to spark an idea and you know it’s not that I can’t get the bookshop running. It’s just…the shop, its contents and the flat are all that I have left of him and I just find it hard to let go.”

Aziraphale could feel his eyes misting over and fiercely willed himself not to cry. Agnes looked like she was fighting tears herself but still she continued, “I know-but don’t you understand? With no money coming in, it won’t be long before you’re forced to sell, and you lose it all anyway. Now, I know you’ve shot it down before, but I think it’s time that you reconsider film rights.”

Aziraphale bristled and drew his shoulders back. “No, I know what these film studios would do to it. They’ll have the characters cavorting and tumbling towards their happy endings in a bright flash of Hollywood sparkle and a pre-approved musical score. You would use my story to pay my bills. If I believed in a hell, I would be knocking upon its door.”

Agnes could hear her voice gaining volume in frustration, “You have not given it a chance. I’ve got someone in mind, they care about the story and they are offering full involvement, including script approval. Do you know how rare that is? I’m worried that this is your best chance and that you are going to let it fly away!”

Aziraphale leapt up from the chair and paced over to the window. He looked down upon the busy street below. After a few moments of silence, Aziraphale muttered in a soft voice, “you don’t know what this story means to me,” a solitary tear trailing down his cheek.

Agnes walked over to him and pulled him into a warm embrace. “I know, my love. I know it’s important to you, in ways that I don’t, even after all these years, fully understand. I wouldn’t bring this up if I honestly didn’t think that the people involved were going to show you or your story any less than their full respect. They don’t just want you to sign over the rights, they want your involvement. Look at this not as using your characters to pay your bills; look at it as a way to breathe new life into them and send them out for a whole new generation of people to get to know.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and melted into Agnes’ hold. He inhaled deeply and let the comforting scent of jasmine and rose from her perfume gently calm him. He swallowed thickly and stepped away from Agnes, leaning against the windowsill to look at her.

“I have final say and if I don’t like what they are doing…”

“Then you don’t sign the papers. They can’t make the film if you don’t grant the rights. But please, tell me you will consider it.”

Aziraphale looked around the room and let his mind wander the different areas of his flat and bookshop downstairs. He sighed. “I don’t want to lose my home.”

Agnes huffed and smiled gently, “You won’t my love. You’ll see, this will be the making of you yet.”

Aziraphale chuckled lowly. “So, what happens now?”

“I’ll set up a meeting with the script writer for some point this week. You go along and hear them out. Just please, promise me that you’ll try to look at this with an open mind?”

“Fine, fine. I will hear them out. Now forget tea, I feel like I need something a bit stronger. I have a lovely bottle of Riesling cooling in the fridge, care to help me sample it?”

“Darling, I thought you would never ask.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that night, after having seen Agnes down to her uber home, Aziraphale busied himself with clearing away the bottles and glasses before settling down to bed. Just as he was about the turn out the lights, his phone beeped and alerted him to a new message from Agnes.

_Thursday at 14:00-Maison Assouline. Table will be in my name. OPEN MIND AZIRAPHALE._


End file.
